I Deny The Presence Of Heaven
by kusegoto
Summary: (Мор. Утопия / Pathologic) Yulia's hand is only gently warm from being inside, but Aglaya can feel herself trying to convince everyone in the room that it burns. Yulia/Aglaya from Pathologic 2, pre-canon.


At the peak of her upward climb of three flights of stairs, Aglaya already knows Yulia has broken into her apartment, for the smell of smoke is different than the usual one that permeates her floor.

She's become familiar, though also limiting the fondness that follows, of the way her smoke trails behind her. That is why, when Aglaya stands at her apartment door with keys she doesn't need in her hand, she guesses where she may have taken perch. She likes to smoke by the window, but she has also claimed how she enjoys sitting beside her company on the tiny divan that came with the apartment. She'll perch behind her as she writes reports that she understands to each vowel, occasionally offering her cigarette in the silence Aglaya requests. She'll accept sometimes, of course.

Aglaya pockets her keys and opens the door. Yulia is at the window. She hides her disappointment by locking the door behind her.

Yulia looks at her, with a smile that reminds Aglaya of how she usually winds down after a long day. "You walked home again?"

"I couldn't afford the new fare," Aglaya admits. "It's incredibly expensive, you know. They've imported vehicles from the west..."

With a hum, Yulia turns against the window sill. "You should rest. At least sit down."

"I couldn't. Not just yet."

"Let me guess... homework?"

Aglaya lifts her gladstone to her desk, where it makes a heavy _thump._ Yulia hides her grin behind her hand. Shaking her head for only a moment, Aglaya opens its clasps and pulls free a heavy book. "Graduating does not put you above the rest of us, Lyuricheva."

"Neither does balancing a job with our schoolwork, Lilich," Yulia retorts, with a much lighter tone. She walks from the windowsill across the thick carpet, her steps much lighter without her shoes on. Aglaya watches her, lowering her head before Yulia can embrace her. She notes that she's still wearing her own boots - she should get into the better habit of removing them. It'll be snowing soon.

Without the last of the afternoon light waning behind her, Yulia touches her gently. She touches Aglaya's chin with her fingertips, and offers a chaste kiss on her cheek. Aglaya, in turn, offers a deep breath, and sighs against her embrace, leading with her shoulder against Yulia's. She can feel Yulia smile on her cheek, but knows her own doesn't match its sincerity. Each time, she wonders if Yulia knows it's exhaustion. She hopes she does.

"I won't be graduating for another two months," Yulia says, as if it's a reminder she needs to say. "What to do afterwards...?"

"Have you found work?" Aglaya asks. She worries that this is when she should brush Yulia's hand away from her cheek. But she doesn't want to do that. She allows it to linger, like it's a dare she's making with herself, seeing how long she can last. Yulia's hand is only gently warm from being inside, but Aglaya can feel herself trying to convince everyone in the room that it burns. "Or are they waiting for your degree?"

"Unfortunately. I suppose they just refuse to take a woman's word for it." Yulia retracts her hand, and Aglaya knows they both miss where it was. "Maybe I'll take a trip? Probably not. I'm still recovering from clearing my savings for my own apartment."

"You have your own apartment?" Aglaya asks, mock aghast. "You spend so much time here, you'd have me think you were waiting outside the building, waiting for the door to open."

She wonders if that might come across as an insult. Both of them know her humour is dry like autumn wind. But Yulia's small smile is worth the lapse in judgment.

"Like a lost cat? I suppose I just might be."

With her hand absent from her cheek and Aglaya suddenly wondering if she should put on the kettle, Yulia leads herself to the divan, sitting down with her ankles crossed. She leaves enough space for Aglaya to join her, but Aglaya returns to unpacking her travel bag, emptying two much more smaller books, the pen Yulia got her for last New Years, and a jar of soup borth. She notices Yulia watches her, but she can't tell its intent. To change her trail, Aglaya puts a hand on the jar and looks directly at her.

"I bought this," she announces. Yulia watches her and she doesn't know why she clenches her other hand. "For my dinner. Tonight. I presume you're staying...?"

"I didn't think you knew I would drop by," Yulia says, taking another drag from her cigarette.

"You visit at the end of every week and every Wednesday," Aglaya recites. "If you already have plans-"

"Are you trying to chase me out?" Yulia asks. Aglaya doesn't let her determination slip, but Yulia's sigh is a fair course to take. "No, not at all. Do you need a pot ready?"

"Yes. There's cabbage in the icebox."

Yulia doesn't move from her spot on the divan — Aglaya notices she's begun a slouch, legs stuck far out to keep herself from falling to the floor. It's very childlike, almost like a lazy teenager. Aglaya busies her hands by pushing her books closer on to the desk and putting the jar back in the bag, but is surprised to see Yulia extend her hand forward. Tentatively, she looks over her shoulder. Yulia's head tilts.

"I wasn't aware our parlour play went over your head, Aglaya," she says, only sitting up once Aglaya realizes Yulia's hand is for her to take. She lifts herself up with Aglaya's grip, and the step Aglaya has to take towards her doesn't go unnoticed. Yulia looks up at her for a moment, and then a moment longer, before guiding her closer. Aglaya's knees bump into Yulia's extended leg, and she cautiously steps over her to meet her on the side of the divan that she often takes. She wonders if she's meant to feel worried. She wonders if what she feels is worry.

"Would you like one?" Yulia asks, offering her cigarette to Aglaya.

Aglaya's quirked brow and inquisitive purse of her lips doesn't go unnoticed, or masked. She takes Yulia's cigarette instead, who then folds her hands on her lap.

"You slouch like a child," Aglaya says, which makes Yulia hide another laugh.

"I'm getting comfortable, actually. I'll make it an effort to not drag my feet across the floor, though."

"Thank you," Aglaya replies, keeping her head low as she breathes in the cigarette. To say it reminds her of Yulia would be unnecessary. But it's much better than trying to pace her own apartment and explain herself to someone who knows better; it's slow. It's quiet. Yulia's hand reaches behind her and holds her by her shoulder. And that is how they sit, with Aglaya still in her coat and boots. Yulia has been made warm by the radiator, but Aglaya wonders if she even needs it at all if she has her on the couch with her.

She feels like they are two women at a train station, shielding themselves from the wind that seeks to snuff out their shared cigarette. It is intimate. It is familiar. They haven't stood together in public yet, because Aglaya knows her dates and afternoons off are coming to an end. But the apartment feels a bit more better. It's more comfortable, at least, compared to the cutting weather outside. Yulia starts to rub her shoulder, and Aglaya betrays herself and leans into her. She only worries for a moment if the ash is getting on Yulia's lap before she heaves another sigh.

"When did you plan on eating?" Yulia asks. "Before or after you started studying?"

She doesn't have the heart to remind her it isn't studying. "If you're staying, whenever you would like. We can put the kettle on, as well..."

It's hard to stay with the illusion of domesticity. But Yulia plays along, leaning her back against the divan. It's comfortable. Aglaya can confess that much. "Of course, then. May I?"

Yulia takes back the cigarette from Aglaya's fingers and tastes it herself. It's so quiet, she thinks she could do something unexpected and she'd feel a moment's reprieve. Maybe she can untie her hair and let it down. Maybe she can kiss Yulia back. Maybe she can make some tea and intentionally place her cup on the papers she has to write, damaging them with mug rings. It'd be cathartic, just like watching Yulia breathe. Laying on her is the first step of rebellion, she supposes, so she remains in her embrace with an arm on her hip, cushioned between her shirt and the couch. Their legs stretch far across the floor — what she wouldn't give to lift Yulia up and let them lay horizontal together. Maybe after they've eaten, smoked, and pretended there is no silence between their words, that reservations are long since passed.

It is so difficult for Aglaya. But Yulia dares her to step from her role and complete her stride. As Yulia keeps the cigarette, Aglaya follows her back, with a kiss pressed to her lip's corner. She tries not to get in the way of her smoke, but she chases the natural smile of her lips, kissing where the strokes of her lipstick missed. It is a gesture that she offers through closed hands, hiding like a secret that even Yulia must promise not to peek at. Aglaya allows her hands to rest somewhere, and that somewhere is Yulia's lap, where she waits to hold Aglaya's fingers between hers, held on to like a bouquet.

Aglaya is an agent of melancholy. One day, she will be an agent of the state, but that is some time away. There is still time now, to hold on to Yulia and pretend the only thing they have to worry about is the smoke filling the hallway. Aglaya lifts her lips and kisses her again, gently and tentatively, on the cusp of her cheekbone. Inside, she admits only to herself that she enjoys how Yulia leans against her. Yulia puts the stub of the smoke to the short table by the divan, supporting only a glass ash tray. She turns into Aglaya, and once again they chase what they long for, a mutual flame that hesitates, but never extinguishes.

Yulia's hands cup her face and kiss with more confident intent. Aglaya likes that about her. They share equal desire, but Yulia can touch her without fear. She knows she thinks about it, like she always does, coming up with a new riddle to solve over tea. But maybe the secret is that she never _over_thinks.

Slowly, without meaning to offend, Aglaya leans herself back for a moment. "I think I'm just jealous of you."

Yulia tilts her head with her blink. "What brought this on?"

"You speak a better language than I do. I don't know if we are speaking the same thing at all."

Yulia strokes Aglaya's cheek. "Perhaps we aren't. But I think we are close enough — like neighbouring countries that have the same word for 'moonlight'."

"Or 'house cat'."

"Or 'female lover'."

Aglaya reaches up and lays a hand over Yulia's. "Maybe you're only familiar with my accent."

"I think you're just as familiar with mine," Yulia says. She kisses her again, properly, over her mouth. Aglaya likes how she makes her shoulders relax. "It is by no means incompatible."

With hope raw in her throat, Aglaya quietly replies, "I hope I can learn some time."


End file.
